Sarah’s Dad Buys Her a Cadillac by John B. Elliott

It’s well known that a man should never be separated from his tools, and many men want to be buried with them, a need often ignored. In any case, I amend this principle by adding an auxiliary: a man should never be separated from his tools or his car. A man needs to travel, and I know I’d have a conniption fit if anyone tried to take my Powder Blue from me.

Anyway, after my girlfriend, Sarah, requested a few times in a polite manner—some would say stormed and screeched with added foot stomping—her dad agreed to buy her a car, and it wasn’t long before he handed her the keys to a brand-new Cadillac sedan.

She invited me to her house to admire her new car, since Powder Blue was a Cadillac and it would interest me. I suspected she wanted to show off her Cadillac in comparison to my vintage DeVille, about which she had occasionally directed disparaging remarks, especially when it rained, and my convertible top was stuck down. I myself don’t mind that as it rarely rains in Southern California, and when it does, it’s usually a friendly, soft, misty downpour I find invigorating.

No matter her ulterior motive, I drove to her house on Chelten Way, but had to enter by way of Ashbourne as the magnificent families in their magnificent houses had convinced the city that Chelten Way should be blocked off by a gate which only residents could open. Even so, I still admire the oaks growing in the middle of that elegant street.

Sarah named her Cadillac RC, which might stand for Royal Carriage, at least I think it does. She didn’t say, but what else? Along with her ever-present dad, we stood admiring her car, one of the first delivered for the upcoming year. Sarah’s dad, wearing a business suit as usual, was torn between keeping his eye on me and his eye on the new car, and I noticed when he looked at Sarah’s Cadillac, there was a wistful look on his face.

There was no comparison between RC and Powder Blue; my car won hands down. Nothing can beat the stylish front fenders and rear fender fins of the DeVille, let alone the sleek do-da stripes running along the sides and the superlative front grill with its enormous perpetual grin. That I couldn’t open the passenger door was a minor demerit, but such things are fixable, and I plan to, though I admit that the wired-shut door has given me many pleasures as my passengers slide in from the driver’s side, affording them a full view of the smartly decked-out interior front panel. What can compete with that?

Certainly not Sarah’s new car. Now, I don’t want to be harsh about a brand I admire, but ever since General Motors decided to downsize its Cadillac line, each year its models look more and more like the other guys. Darn if I can tell much difference between Sarah’s Cadillac and those numerous brands made across the Pacific.

Sarah wanted to take a spin. I happily agreed and expected her to exhibit symptoms of the Lexus Syndrome. All Lexus drivers proceed like the entire world, or at least the drivers nearby, have a vested interest in running into their car, marring the paint job with an evil scratch, or denting a bumper or fender, or worse, massacring the hood and driver’s seating, so they drive with the caution a brain surgeon has as he enters the unknown terrain of a man’s or woman’s inner castle. I assumed the Lexus Syndrome would apply to a Cadillac.

Sarah backed out of her driveway with élan and squealed the tires as she skidded to a stop, then, ignoring the gate, accelerated toward Ashbourne. I thought she wanted to show off her Cadillac to her neighbors, but after a screeching turn, she accelerated to over forty mph on the thousand-foot stretch along Ashbourne before stopping at Garfield. I was proud of her, actually, for I was sure she recalled the fun times she had with me in Powder Blue racing the freeways of Los Angeles.

In any case, she burned rubber as she stopped at the T-intersection at Garfield. Actually, Ashbourne continues across Garfield, but the citizens of San Marino put a demarcation between Ashbourne residents of South Pasadena and Ashbourne residents of their city by installing a barrier of trees and shrubs. This nose-in-the-air rivalry helps them forget how San Marino students had to attend South Pasadena High School when they lacked a school of their own. This friction, however, is ameliorated by sharing one tradition: flying the flag daily.

Sarah certainly couldn’t be diagnosed with anhedonia, a condition where a person can’t feel pleasure, for her smile was broad and her eyes danced like moonbeams on a choppy sea as we paraded back and forth on Fair Oaks Avenue from Huntington Drive in the south to the War Memorial building in the north. Nor did she neglect the east-west corridor of Mission, making several turns from City Hall to Old Town and back.

All of a sudden, she gave a whoop and sped down Mission to Orange Grove and from there to the freeway.

“I need to buy a hat!” she declared as she charged down the 110, showing off her agility with rapid lane changes, braking, and acceleration. At the Dodger Stadium off-ramp, she pulled off briskly and drove into the parking lot, for which I courteously paid. I was in the mood for a good game, but she drove on, passing down each aisle as if running a maze, then left the parking lot and regained the freeway, only this time heading north toward Pasadena, where she found the type of store only a princess would enter to shop. I again paid for parking.

She chose an elegant hat, something akin to what women wear at the Kentucky Derby, and was all smiles until we went back to her car. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t start.

Sarah has many resources, the primary one being her father, whom, after a princess-like tantrum, she called, and he quickly reassured her he was on his way. And therein he surprised me in more ways than one. First, he was there remarkably fast, actually, before Sarah had let out her full fury at her plans being stymied by an automobile, though she managed a few good kicks, screams, and yells. The second surprise was that her dad popped the hood and fiddled a bit, then asked me to start the car, which quickly purred into action. I would never have guessed that he had mechanical ability. In fact, I wasn’t sure he knew the difference between a hammer and a socket wrench.

As Sarah tore out of the parking lot with a bright smile on her face, I assumed we were going back to her house. Well, they say you learn something new every day, and on this day, I learned never to make assumptions about a princess. She had told me on the way to buy her hat that she and her girlfriends were getting together that afternoon to plan an outdoor gala at Library Park, which is never used for such events, but in this case, her dad had managed to convince someone in the Parks Department to allow it.

“Won’t you be late to your meeting?”

“They’ll wait for me,” she replied as she glided down the ramp onto the 210. “Don’t worry, my girls will wait for me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Now, I’m a man who thinks patience is a virtue. Plus, I was, and still am, enamored by Sarah’s beauty. That she dated a working stiff like me added to my belief that deep down she’s a good person, so I rarely contradict or question her. My friends chide me that I’m game, but at the time of any interaction with her, I feel like I know what I’m doing. I’m proud I give her the tolerance most men never give a woman, so I was content to wait and see.

Eventually, I learned we were headed to Riverside and a store called Deluxe Shoe. Now Riverside is a distance away, an hour’s drive in light traffic. The problem is, there is no light traffic in Southern California, yet Sarah did her best, weaving in and out of this and that lane, and we were there in ninety minutes. The store had a giant, diamond-studded shoe mounted on the roof and wait persons in six-inch stiletto heels, including the men, but no one would find that strange in California. There were rows and rows of shelving stacked high with shoe boxes, and display cases scattered around the store filled with elegant shoes.

After several hours and several hundred shoes tried on, Sarah found the perfect pair, charged them to her dad’s credit card, and bounced out of the store with exuberance and panache. You might guess what happened next. Yes, her car wouldn’t start, and before she could even bang on the steering wheel and shout demonic phrases, I jumped out to check under the hood. I found nothing amiss and asked her to try again. The results were the same.

“What’s this?” she said as she pointed her elegant finger toward the dash at a little red light that indicated the gas tank was empty. This, of course, shouldn’t have happened because she had a full tank of gas when she received the car, but a person deals with what has to be dealt with, and as she called her dad, I began scouting for gas stations. There were none in sight.

Her dad called Triple A, made arrangements, then called her back. Yes, they would bring gas to her; yes, they would as soon as possible; yes, they would keep her needs in mind, but unfortunately, due to a multi-car pileup on a freeway south of us, all trucks were currently tied up.

This elicited another series of screams, kicks, yells, and wailing, and to her credit—as well as being good for her mental health—Sarah never holds back or represses her emotions. I can admire that, though I was surprised when she threw into the mix how she hated this car, and it was a worthless piece of … Well, I won’t get into her exact words, some of which were directed at me. This is where my philosophy of acceptance served me well. I didn’t haul off and give her a talking to, though believe me, I did so inside my head.

After listening to her curses, sobs, and physical manifestations of her emotional state for half an hour, a strange thing happened. Her dad appeared with a canister of gas. He explained he was visiting a client in San Bernardino, and as soon as he could get away, he went to a gas station, filled the container, and located Sarah. What he said must have been true, for he was still wearing a suit and tie, which is the only way I have ever seen him.

Sarah recovered, and we were on our way home. Before she dropped me off, she explained the plan for her outdoor gala, which was to be held the next night. She had access to three-quarters of Library Park, which meant that the gala could be seen from all four surrounding streets. She planned lights and Japanese lanterns to be strung in the trees, some to make a nice necklace effect when strung from one palm to the next. The grand Moreton Bay Fig would be filled with caged, white doves, and helium-filled party balloons would be strategically placed to ensure a festive atmosphere. A local DJ would provide the necessary upbeat beats.

But the most entertaining thing she planned was her entrance. Except for El Centro, the streets around Library Park are one-way, but only one-way when adjacent to the park. She planned to drive her new Cadillac along El Centro in full view of the assembly, then make the one-way loop around the park. She wasn’t going to stop there, but after maneuvering through side streets, she traveled the opposite direction on El Centro, giving those in the park a different view of her profile. After that, she would join her gala.

I wished her well and went home to my bungalow, where I ate a dinner of hot dogs and watched an evening of television. I considered whether she would want me with her in her brand-new car as she made her drive-by circuits before entering her gala to drink champagne and dance with her guests. I concluded she wouldn’t and didn’t expect to hear from her at all the next day, though I imagined sometime during the week she would call to boast about her splendid evening. With that in mind, I was surprised when she called me at three the next afternoon.

“I have to go to Calabasas, and you’re coming with me!”

“That’s way out in the valley.”

“I need you! What if something happens?”

“After the two unfortunate incidents yesterday, it’s unlikely anything more will happen.”

“Are you going to fail me?”

I knew that was the end of it, for I would never fail my princess. To make sure of my compliance, she added, “You have to prove yourself.”

I made one last effort. “Calabasas is a long way, and your gala starts at five-thirty.”

“There’s a dress in a store in Calabasas I have to have. They’re holding it for me.”

“But Sarah—”

“How can you even consider disappointing me? I’ll pick you up in my new Cadillac.”

Calabasas—at the opposite end of the Los Angeles basin from Riverside—was fifty minutes away in light traffic, so I expected it would take an additional half hour more. Getting there and the return trip would take up the time until the gala, leaving zero minutes to try on the dress. She knew this, of course, for she never expected to make her entrance at the stated time.

I suspected her motivation in taking me was to continue her campaign to prove her Cadillac superior to mine, not realizing she had little chance. Now I think my princess should be accommodated in every way, but I had to draw a line somewhere, and that line was Powder Blue. No gizmo-enhanced, modern car with all the latest technology, so nipple-pleasant a person never learns to drive, would ever surpass Powder Blue.

Sarah flew by Dodger Stadium at a speed which shouldn’t be published and cursed a blue streak at the highway interchanges. As before, she weaved and skirted around one car and another, braked hard, and then proved her skill at acceleration. We were there by five-fifteen.

I have to admire the calmness which Sarah displayed as she tried on the dress, walked about quizzing both staff and customers about her appearance, sat down for five minutes to luxuriate in the feel of her apparel, and then continued to seek the supportive comments of those around her. It was close to five-forty when she took out her charge card. If I hadn’t learned from Sarah about the proper delay a princess makes to a party, I would have been as shaky as a leaf in a hurricane.

Because it was rush hour in the Los Angeles basin—actually a misnomer since even at three a.m. It’s rush hour—I knew we’d be very late. The proper word for the aforementioned time is not rush hour but walking-dead hour because the walking dead travel faster, but we found out calamity was going to be added to traffic woe as we loaded the clothes she wore to the store in the trunk, for she had decided to wear her new dress on the ride home. Her Cadillac had a flat tire.

“See!” she announced triumphantly, as if proving herself right about bringing me was more significant than a flat tire.

I immediately grabbed the jack and spare, but soon perceived another problem. She had two flat tires, and a third was leaking from a nearly invisible puncture. As I explained, we’d need to be towed to a tire shop if we could possibly find one open; her air of satisfied triumph evaporated into a despairing wail. She then began an invective about fate’s lack of charity, the perversity of shopping mall locations, and how everyone at the gala would be drunk beyond sense by the time she arrived to show off her Cadillac. Her earnest speech was worthy of a senator convincing his fellow colleagues that their wealthy donors deserved another tax cut to spur economic growth. This time, though her dad was sympathetic, he had no clue where an open tire shop could be.

She never made it to her gala. The next day, she told her father she no longer wanted “that beast!” Her dad decided to keep it for himself, and as far as I know, there’s been no further difficulty. I see him around town driving his Cadillac with a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

I don’t know how long it will be before Sarah asks for another set of wheels. She won’t press him immediately, I know that, for if there’s anything certain, it’s that Sarah is the most patient person in the world.